


Felis Rex

by SabreCat



Category: Redwall
Genre: Backstory, F/M, Fantasy, Prequel, Romance, Villains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-23
Updated: 2010-09-06
Packaged: 2018-05-22 05:57:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6067723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SabreCat/pseuds/SabreCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Riggu Felis, Warlord of Green Isle, defeated one High Rhulain and fell to another. This story tells a few pieces of his history, from the perspective of the feral cat who became his mate: the Lady Kaltag.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Warlord Arrives

He came in splendor, in magnificence. His glory shone not from the rough colors of his clothes and armor, though the cloak made of his enemies' pelts and feathers surely impressed whoever witnessed it. No, he shone from the very power of his blood, as his fur and countenance made evident. His muzzle and teeth came to sharper points than the ferals', and the colors of his fur blended into even camouflage, lacking their domestic spots and stripes.

He came in majesty, declaring his wildcat heritage without speaking. And Ratha Kaltag, who had waited long for this moment, saw, and knew, and waited.

He came exactly when the warleaders needed him, too, though at first they did not recognize it. They saw only a stranger and an intruder, descending without invitation upon their council. They accosted him, not aware as Ratha was of how futile their efforts would prove against such a superior being. She alone did not rise from the council table.

"Halt! Who are you? What is the meaning of this?"

The newcomer looked them all over before replying, his hand on the head of a great one-bladed axe at his waist. Already he had the manner of a leader surveying his troops, but this, too, escaped the notice of all save Ratha Kaltag. "Be still," he rumbled, "I am a cat." He did not add "same as you." He looked resolutely past the crowd toward the table behind them. "Whose camp is this?"

The foremost of the warleaders rose to the challenge. "It is mine, stranger, the war chieftain Goreth Steelclaw." He cast an appraising eye over the newcomer, but his next words, in failing to further resist the trespass on his territory, proved him too weak to have the right of passing judgment on the wildcat. "Have you come to join our cause?"

"What cause is it?"

"We mean to settle this land, what the local beasts call Green Isle. Only, there's a bunch of river otters given us resistance. We mean to drive 'em out, but they're taking our armies down to Dark Forest cat by cat." Already he had bared his weakness and sought the newcomer's confidence, before he had even heard his visitor's name. It was over.

"An army of cats should be able to crush mere otters." The implicit criticism sent mutters through the group. "Show me the situation."

The war council returned to the table, where a scout's crude map of Green Isle lay. Steelclaw pointed to several areas at confluences of rivers. "They have communities in all the best places. But any way we move in, they keep hitting us and dropping back into the rivers as we give chase. It's no way to make war."

Ratha Kaltag watched as the wildcat gave the map just a cursory glance, surely taking in all the information revealed there, but demonstrating that the strategic layout was not his first concern. "You're right. This is no way to wage war. Which means you wage war another way." He stared hard at Steelclaw. "Tell me. Why do these otters resist you?"

It seemed a foolish question. Steelclaw shrugged. "They want to protect their land."

The wildcat visitor sneered. "Stop thinking of it as 'their land,' and you might have a chance. It's _your_ land, and they're squatting on it." The harsh look softened just slightly. "But you're nearly right. This land _matters_ to them. It's worth the cost of a few – what, slingstones? if I know otters – to keep it. We need to raise that price." He swept a look over the whole table. "So. What do these otters care about most?"

"The water," one of the other warchiefs ventured.

"True. They're otters, they like that. What else?"

Silence lingered for a moment, and Ratha looked into the faces of the other warleaders, many of whom were whispering to each other more than considering the visitor's question. Their mistake. One dullard at Ratha's left spoke up: "I dunno. Shrimp and hotroots?"

That brought forth a round of chuckles from the table, but the newcomer hissed. "No! Idiots." The noise died down, but no one came up with a new answer. "They care about their _families,_ you fools. These are communities, not warbands. Raise the cost to that level, and they will fold. There will be no more resistance." He looked back at Steelclaw. "Do you have cats who can enter their communities by stealth? Under the cover of night?"

"My scouts are excellent. They—"

"They aren't your scouts anymore. They're our assassins. Send them in to kill without warning, to slay or kidnap the wives and children of the warriors who've harried you. Send word the next day that they have paid this price for defying us." He walked around the table, seeming a head above them all. Ratha savored his words. "It will not break them immediately; they will double their defenses and come seeking revenge, but there the fight will come on our terms. Then we shall punish them again with fire or poison, and again if they stage another attack, and again, until they accept us as their masters."

"It is a fine plan, my lord," said Ratha Kaltag, drawing the attention of the whole table by the breach of her long silence and the subversive words of deference with which she addressed the visitor. "May I suggest something?"

The wildcat considered her for a moment, and nodded.

"When we send our assassins, let us target only the children. A mother may surprise our cats with her ability to fight back in defense of her nest, and then raise the alarm, and spoil our plan. But a child is just a child, and easily overpowered. And it will break their morale most of all, for it is a parent's greatest sorrow to outlive her children."

Murmurs rippled around the table, but the wildcat grinned wickedly and nodded to her. "Yes. We'll do that."

"And one more thing, if I may be so bold, my lord: what do we call you, who have come into our midst to deliver us victory?"

That wicked smile spread to his glittering eyes – ah, those two glorious eyes! – as he answered her. "I am the wildcat Riggu Felis, come from the lands to the east. And you say it well: I will make us lords of this Isle!"

And Ratha Kaltag, who had waited and watched so long for such a warlord to come, saw, and knew, and loved him.


	2. Power and the Wild Mind

And so Riggu Felis became a Warlord among the feral cats of Green Isle by knowing and wielding the power of grief. He was a lord of blood and tears, tearing down the strong by targeting the weak ones for whom his enemies fought.

The first otter village to fall knew nothing of their fate before it descended upon them. They had always been adept at guile and ambush themselves, and knew their oppressors to be a dull-witted breed capable of falling for the same trap twice or more. And their sentries were sharp-eyed and vigilant; what had they to fear? When their young ones went missing, then floated lifeless down the river the next morning, it was as if an angel of death, some ferrybeast from Dark Forest itself, had come and gone in the night.

They knew better than to think that had actually happened, though. They sought their revenge, just as the wildcat lord had predicted. Just as the wildcat lord had predicted, too, the cats defeated them, playing their defensive advantage and their distance from water as the trump cards they were. Broken by loss, the diminished beasts of that delta town struggled but feebly when their new masters arrived to claim them. They accepted the long, slow ache of toil to avoid more of the sharp, bleeding pain of deaths and mourning.

Felis set them immediately to the construction of his fortress, there on the coast. For it was inevitable that the other otter clans scattered about the Isle would notice their friends no longer sent letters, or come to visit only to discover the seaside town had become a slave camp. He would be ready for them when they did.

He stood there, observing the manifestation of his will in his slaves' handiwork and in the disposition of the cats who guarded them, when the she-cat came to call upon him. Her voice was reverent, but also hungry, in a way that intrigued him.

"The cats know at last that you are their lord too," she purred. "They didn't recognize majesty when it was right in front of them, but victory, that they can understand."

"Keep your flattery." He could not, however, totally conceal the pride in his voice. He looked at his admirer with a wary eye. "You're the one who had guts enough to speak to me at that first war council, aren't you. What's your name?"

Her smile looked wicked, but it came from true feeling. "Ratha Kaltag, my lord."

Felis looked back at the fortress-in-progress. "And what do you think you 'recognized' that the others didn't? Why do you think you're so clever?"

"Not clever, lord, but I know myself and I know them – enough to see how you are different. You are a true wildcat, lord, are you not?"

He scowled at her. "And what does that mean to you?"

"It means you are still a keen edge, my lord. You have not the weak blood, the tamed brain that slows our thoughts and keeps us from reaching greatness."

"And yet you seem bold enough." It was not a compliment so much as a warning; his hand touched his axe as he voiced it.

Ratha shook her head. "I have only been given space and time to see it, lord. Since I am younger than the other war chiefs and a she-cat, my voice always drew only reproach from the others. I learned to keep silent and watch. I grew skilled at seeing exactly how the others failed… but I also had time to know myself. If I were in their place, I would focus on my plans and grow blind to all else, just as they have." She smiled at Felis. "But you, my lord, swayed every mind within moments. A true power we bickering dullards never found!"

"Is that why you come to praise me? Because I have power, and your siblings never let you have any?" He sneered.

"No, lord. I don't want power for myself. I am still a feral cat, and I would fight my battles with the slow wisdom of a feral cat, and be deposed. I cannot take power from you."

"If not for yourself, then what?"

She laughed softly, not mocking, but confident. "I suppose that is one way I can think but you cannot."

This raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"You will never think like a she-cat," she said amusedly, bowed, and took her leave. As she turned to go, her tail brushed a paw's length against Felis's tail, and a shudder went up his spine.


	3. Disturbance in the She-cat's Plan

A commotion nearing the work site brought Ratha back, wary and curious, to her lord's presence. She watched with mounting apprehension as one of the cat guards – as they were now called, wholly subordinate to their master Felis – dragged a squirming pine marten into view. The guards stopped before the Warlord, and one announced the situation. "We found this one skulking her way toward the fortress, my lord."

"Let me go!" protested the marten. "I come as an ally and admirer, not a threat. Let go of me!"

Riggu Felis looked at the captive with bland interest. "An ally and admirer, you say? What is that?"

"You are the savior of this Isle, my lord," the marten babbled, shakily. "I know of your war, your victories, against the otters who have oppressed me so long, and I praise you for it. Praise you, and desire to aid you. I come recently escaped from one of their villages, where the beasts long held me bound, and I have information that may prove valuable to you, if you accept my humble service."

Felis glanced briefly at each of the cat guards holding the marten. "Release her. I would hear this... information. What intelligence can you give me from within the otters' homes?"

The marten bowed gratefully. "The otters have a great leader, my lord – not so mighty as you, but who may impede your plans if you do not prepare against her. She bears a religious significance to the beasts of this Isle, as well as political power and military skill. They call her the High Rhulain."

Nearby, Goreth Steelclaw – once a warchief, now a lieutenant – coughed. Riggu Felis swiveled an ear toward him. "You have something to say, Steelclaw?"

"Yes, lord. We've heard of this 'High Rhulain,' before we came to this Isle. Past invasion forces blamed her for their failures. It's said she's an ottermaid who's a figure of _prophecy_ among 'em, so they get uncanny fightin' spirit under 'er command."

"And yet you never thought to tell me of this?" Felis's voice was cool, perfectly disdainful. Ratha's heart turned over.

Steelclaw shifted his feet uncomfortably. "We've never encountered 'er, m'lord. Thought she were just a legend, an excuse the beaten forces used to cover their screw-up."

"Sometimes legends have substance, Lieutenant, and they _always_ have power." His ear turned back, putting his full attention on the pine marten again. "What of this High Rhulain? Why mention her to me?"

"She's coming here, my lord," said the marten, her confidence plainly growing at this encouragement. "As soon as her forces are drilled and ready – in a week or so at most – she means to sail from her home at the north end of the Isle, and attack your stronghold before it is complete."

"So." Felis's eyes narrowed. "We cannot raise a fighting navy in that time. We shall have to make do with what ships remain of those that brought us here... and work our captured otter canoes to carry cats. That way we may at least scout the strength of their fleet, and harry and disturb them with boarding-assassinations by night." He turned to his lieutenants. "We must delay work on the fortress itself for now. What's done will serve as a stockade if it comes to that, but what we need are siege weapons to strike those sailing craft. Catapults, mangonels, ballistae. Who among you can oversee their construction?"

The cats stared blankly at him.

"You must be joking—" Felis growled in frustration, but the pine marten interrupted.

"I took part in a siege on the Quarry once, on the mainland, my lord. I could see to such a project."

"Good." The warlord flared his pelt-and-feather cloak imperiously. "Prove yourself to me. Succeed in building a set of sea defenses in the time you have, and I shall make you my taskmaster when we have defeated this High Rhulain." He paused. "What is your name, marten?"

The beast fairly glowed with gratitude. "Atunra, my lord."

"Go then, Atunra. We have no time to waste."

Ratha scowled. _She, too, knows the way into a Warlord's confidence: make yourself deeply useful to him._ Determined to win back the ground she had lost in this turn of events, Ratha sidled up to Felis when his lieutenants had scattered to do his bidding. "If I may be so bold, my lord," she purred, "you are making a mistake."

Felis fixed upon her with blazing eyes. Oh, how simple it would be to melt under that heat, to acquiesce to the fury in his blood! But she had to hold firm, despite the weakness of her feral race. To her relief, Riggu's restrained reply showed her that all was not yet lost. "What do you mean?"

"You have entrusted a task of tremendous importance – awarded the discretion and powers of a second-in-command, even – to an unproven outsider. The cat guards will chafe to see such unearned privilege, and mutiny will take root among them."

"Don't insult me, she-cat." He advanced on her a step, menacing her with his presence. "Do you think I, Warlord of Green Isle, cannot judge the character of my subordinates? You do not see what I see, in this newcomer or in the cat guards you think so ready to rebel."

Ratha bared her teeth. "Even the greatest of warlords, no, _especially_ the greatest of warlords, can go blind from the insidious words of a sycophant!"

Felis's aspect grew even more dangerous; his ears flattened back, and claws flexed on his strong paws. He began to circle her, pacing as if to cow his prey. "Weren't you the one who wanted all power given unto me, an 'outsider' like this one? Don't you come daily to me with your advice couched in abject flattery of my 'great wildcat heritage'? Perhaps I should strike _you_ down as a 'sycophant'... and a hypocrite besides."

"My lord, you mistake me." Desperation moved her now; she had acted without knowing where to lead this confrontation once it began. Her paw shot out, and grasped the warlord's upper arm, halting his movement more by audacity than strength. "See not treachery, but words of hope in your success, from one who loves you!"

They stood there, staring at each other from a paw's width apart, for some moments. His hot breath flared over her. She was engulfed in his scent and that of his grim cloak – musk, dust, and foe-hide – and dared not breathe lest she risk its power.

Finally Riggu shook her paw free, and glared down at her with teeth clenched. "Get out of my sight," he growled.

Ratha could no longer disobey, even if there were wisdom in it. She fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a glowing victory for faithful adherence to source material, I admit. I can't recall siege weaponry ever showing up in the _Redwall_ universe, much less in Riggu Felis's paws. But I didn't have much to work with regarding Atunra's background, beyond that Felis valued her and Kaltag was jealous of her, so I had lots of blanks to fill in, and here we are. One must suppose that the armaments were destroyed or fell into disrepair by the time the events of _High Rhulain_ rolled around, and they had no real use in the sort of warfare depicted there anyway.
> 
> Thanks go to LaMissile for correcting me on Atunra's gender; I'd referred to her as "him" in the prior draft. Please let me know if any incorrect references remain.


	4. Victory Consummated

Ratha Kaltag stood ready amid the fortifications of the half-built castle. She had no weapon; the lord Felis had not deigned to arm her. No matter. If the fighting came this far, some of the cat guards would surely fall, and she would take up one of their blades. And if some fool otter cornered her before she had the chance? Well, she still had her claws. By steel or nail, she would stand bathed in blood to greet her lord, and in the heat of his victory he would never resist the allure of her embrace.

She leaned against a rampart, stretching out her back, eyes narrow and a smile playing over her fangs. The thud of siege weapons reverberated down the coast. Even now Lord Felis himself would take to the water to board the otter priestess's flagship, hewing her down amid the chaos of the bombardment. Ah, what a glory it would be, to see him in action at the height of his regal power! It rent her heart not to be there now… but Felis was a warlord. There would be more battles in the future, when she stood by his side and in his heart.

Flames lit the waters to the north, otter boats dying as they approached. Ratha paced, watching them descend beneath the waves and gutter out. Nothing, nothing she could do but wish impotently for stronger winds to speed the otters to their doom and the Lord Felis to her side.

Wishes or no, the winds, and the ships, did come. The flagship still stood, tall and impudent amid its fleet of charred and broken hulks. The sails sported painted emblems, green against their white, symbolic of the otters' "High Rhulain." Ratha held her breath, her paw at her throat: what? Did that bitch of a warrior-prophetess yet live, despite the wildcat lord's assault?

But no—the flagship began to list in the water, its prow skewing toward the bank as the craft continued to float southward. And above the mast, a fearsome banner unfurled, a canvas smeared with otter blood in the clawed sigil of Riggu Felis. Ratha Kaltag let out her breath at last, in a laugh so heady with relief and victory that it seemed to shake the very fortress she stood upon.

* * *

Felis stood overseeing the disposition of his newly made otter slave workforce. The most dangerous of them went about their orders chained; all labored under the leering eyes and sharp spears of the cat guards. For the taskmasters, he appointed those wounded in the fighting who could still walk and crack a whip. That way, even as the cats' injuries scarred over, they would punish any insolence with the utmost vengeance, and the otters would always know their resistance was the cause of their greatest suffering.

Ratha approached Felis as soon as the slaves' new routine seemed secure. "It goes well, my lord," she purred. "These spoils will fashion you a magnificent fortress indeed."

"Mm." The wildcat shrugged and adjusted his cloak, newly sewn in with otter pelts still fresh and reeking.

"Well enough, I think, that you can be spared some time aside. These defeated creatures will cause no trouble for you today."

"Oh?" He turned and stood over her, arms folded. "And what errand would you presume to send me on, she-cat, and deny me the savoring of my victory?"

"No errand, my lord. A mere walk. A conversation." She lowered her voice that nearby cat guards would not hear. "Your victory is still incomplete, Riggu Felis. But I would not explain this where lesser ears might hear." It all turned on this opportunity for privacy. She shot a wary glance at the pine marten Atunra, sitting in privilege above the taskmasters, smug in the rewards for her service.

Felis spat down from the wall, striking one of the slaves. "Incomplete?" A snarl touched the corner of his mouth. "You insult my leadership, Kaltag." She barely suppressed a shiver, to hear her own name so! "If I am not satisfied with what you tell me on this walk of yours, you will not return to this fortress alive."

Ratha's heart pounded fit to crush her chest, but she bowed and said nothing more, letting the wildcat lead. He strode through the archway that would soon hold his fortress gates; none, of course, questioned him on where he was going or to what purpose. Still Kaltag did not speak, but gestured with a submissive nod of her head toward the shore, where a grassy slope occluded them from both sight and hearing of the fortress. Out in the water, the mast of the Rhulain's sunken flagship stood, protruding from the shallows as a monument to the battle.

"So. Your chance is now, Kaltag. Speak plain or die."

"Yes, my lord." She stood straight, willing the tremble out of her tail, head inclined just slightly, proud but obeisant. "Your accomplishments are mighty. The otters are broken. All their lands will soon be under your sway. The cat guards have marched and sailed with you to blood and conquest. They will forever remain loyal. And this fortress now rises with the speed and strength of hundreds more worker beasts. It will stand tall on this coast for all your reign."

Felis growled. "You spoke of the victory being incomplete. You did not draw me out here for more flattery. Out with it, she-cat."

Ratha dared not even nod lest she quaver; she only closed her eyes a moment in acknowledgment. "Your reign, my lord Felis, will not last forever. Someday you, too, will go to Dark Forest, though may it be many seasons from now."

The wildcat scowled. "What, are you a priestess? To advise me that my victory is not whole until I consider my most final reward?"

Kaltag choked down a puzzled and nervous laugh. What a strange notion! Well, while gaining his confidence she had made sure to impress upon Felis that her mind worked differently from his. No surprise, then, that she should be struck by the difference coming the other direction. "No, my lord. I speak not of your soul, but of what happens to your empire when you are gone. As you saw when you first came to this Isle, we feral cats cannot hope to hold a strategic success ourselves for long. Soon after your death this land would belong to the otters again." She took a deep breath and raised her head, meeting his eyes. "The missing piece of your victory, my lord… is an heir."

Felis did not move. He did not reach for his axe, nor strike her with one of his great paws. He held her gaze, those glorious wild eyes smoldering with more than anger.

"I will be your Lady, Riggu Felis, and give you sons to succeed you. You will rule this Isle for a lifetime, and wildcats—not otters, not feral cats—will rule it for generations to come."

Still Felis did not reply, but Ratha saw her words ripple through him like calm water disturbed. He had all else that was his by right of conquest: treasure, slaves, land, respect. But he could not take wives from the conquered otters; that he needed from his own kind, or one like. He needed _her._

So Riggu Felis cast off his lordly cloak. He seized Ratha by the back of her neck, shoved her against the bank, and mounted her. Ecstasy coursed through her body as she claimed her own victory. Riggu Felis's seed would not make her a wildcat, but it would accomplish the next best thing.

Lady Kaltag screamed, in pleasure and triumph.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Four years later, I finish this at last! As with "Say Farewell," I'm going to take this opportunity to explain a little of what I was going for with this story, which you can read, ignore, or comment upon as you see fit.
> 
> First of all, I wanted to do a story from a _Redwall_ villain's point of view. Too often, Jacques's antagonists become two-dimensional. They display a few interesting quirks (like Riggu Felis's hatred of birds), but otherwise act evil for evil's own sake, or exhibit a remorseless greed for power without any depth behind it. So I seized upon the Lady Kaltag's protectiveness toward her children and her jealous paranoia, and tried to flesh them out with the reasons and belief system behind them. Felis himself remains a cipher, but that, I think, is appropriate enough to the tale told here.
> 
> Speaking of the belief system, that's the second objective here: a subtle critique of the racism in Jacques's work. Kaltag thinks Felis is successful because he's a member of a superior race, and the feral cats failed at conquest because their race (her own!) is innately weak and sluggish of mind. How true is that? It looks true from Kaltag's point of view, but she's not supposed to be the most reliable of narrators. I think I went a little too understated with this, since it's easy to take Kaltag at her word in this story, and nothing here contradicts the "all foebeasts are evil" idea in Jacques's books. To attack the genocidal tendencies of the supposedly peaceful and virtuous Redwallers, we'd need a more sympathetic depiction of a foebeast than we see here. Perhaps another time!
> 
> Lastly, there's the matter of sex in the _Redwall_ universe. I wasn't interested in smut for this fic, but the topic just doesn't come up in Jacques's work due to its target audience, and I thought it would be interesting to play with as a plot element. "Dibbuns" and other child-creatures have to come from somewhere, after all. The Lady Kaltag, both villain and mother, seemed like a perfect means for exploring those themes.
> 
> Let me know what you think, by message or review!


End file.
